Blue Feathers
by chraezanty1317
Summary: The woman who was once Raven Darkholme returns to the Mansion one last time. As she wanders the halls, memories resurface, as do feelings of friendship. What has changed since Cuba? What has remained, and will always remain? Post First Class drabble.


A wave of laughter and loud noise greets her, almost throwing her off her feet. She stumbles and leans against the wall, her right hand splayed against the blue wallpaper to steady herself.

She takes a second to get her bearings and steady her breathing until she turns her head to look at Azazel. The mutant narrows his eyes, fixating her with a look that clearly tells her not to stay any longer than absolutely necessary. As if she isn't aware.

Mystique responds with a curt nod and turns her back on him even as he vanishes into thin air.

She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes.

It's overwhelming, the feeling of being in a familiar place one knows is no longer home. She could find her way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where the Professor's students are currently celebrating Hank McCoy's birthday (Is that the sound of glass breaking? What has Banshee done _now_?), blindfolded. The heating is on, but she is still cold. She has never been able to shake the sensation of being a troublesome intruder in Charles's life, true enough.

The woman once known as Raven creeps to her nightstand and opens it with great care, not making a sound. Her grasping fingers find her object of desire, her blue and nimble fingers welcoming the cool feel of metal against her palm.

Her curtains have not been drawn and as such, her window lets through the faintest shimmer of moonlight. The cool glow is reflected in the necklace she clutches.

It is a meager, cheap thing, all things considered. And yet she cannot help but be melancholy, just for a second. It seems to her that the fine chain will crumble to dust at the lightest touch, but it has proven its sturdiness in the past. The pendant is a simple bird made out of onyx - representing a moment forever frozen in time, taking off in mid-flight. She found the raven cheesy then, she does so now; but sentiment taints her resolve and even draws a shaky laugh that resembles happiness as much as it does desperation.

It was her first birthday present from Charles, the first thing to be stored in a drawer she could call her own. He later told her that he had spotted it while passing a street market, claimed it made him think of her immediately. She may have only been seven years old, but had enough determination to gladly accept it, returning the favor the following year, but convince him not to give her any more presents in the future.

She already owed him enough. Did, and still does.

Quickly glancing over her shoulder - a superfluous precaution, she is aware, as she could easily fool anyone who should cross her path - Mystique walks into the hall. Her shape blends perfectly into the shadows, caressing her body until she melts into the dark.

Her brother's study is not locked, she notices. The door is slightly ajar so she only catches a glimpse of what she is sure is the National Library's equivalent of books behind his desk, rows upon shelves forming a maze she has once wandered in for hours without ever picking up a book herself. She has never been a great reader - too impatient, restless, easily distracted. That is not to say she did not appreciate the sensation of blue scales tracing the spines of old acquaintances - sometimes it appeared like Charles's thesis had evolved to merit its own section. She would bet they'd still send her right off to sleep, but only if Charles read them to her himself with her head comfortably rested in his lap.

Mystique turns away, abandoning memories of a plush red armchair, a dusty chess board (another one of Charles's passions she has never been able to share) and the aftertaste of peppermint tea lingering on her tongue even after she has woken up to find herself curled up on that ancient rocking chair.

She has said her goodbyes to Charles in Cuba and it would have to suffice.

_His_ room, on the other hand, is directly across the hall from hers. _It's_ _Raven's_, a tiny voice in the back of her mind sighs._ You're not that scared little girl anymore, insecure about her looks. Stop looking back and stop the pain_.

It is small, crowded and has presumably not been aired in weeks. Mystique smiles. It's nice to see that life is still taking its course. Some things never change, and she dearly hopes they do not ever have to.

Her handwriting is clumsy and too big, but as long as the words are legible she is content. She leaves the note on his desk, where he is sure to find it.

_Happy Birthday, Beast. Mutant and proud._

The chatter and clatter downstairs has faded to a hum in the background, but she has never been one to take great risks. On her guard no matter what, she slips into (_Raven's_) room and gathers a few possessions - useless necessities, old clothes among them, they have made an agreeable excuse to return just the same.

Mystique clutches the small necklace in her hand, blue scales swallowing it all, silver and onyx, with a bag slung carelessly over her shoulder. Azazel appears and takes her with him, not saying a word.

She does not regret her decision. She hopes Hank understands.

Erik knows about the necklace from the moment she comes back - of course he does - but he keeps silent about it. Mystique is thankful for that.


End file.
